Merry Little Christmas
by Known Unknowns
Summary: House isn't too full of Christmas cheer this year. Thanks to Wilson, he's left with a choice: his pills, or his life? AU for 3x10.
1. Act 1

**Merry Little Christmas**

**A House MD Fanfiction**

**Act 1: Afraid of the Pain**

**Author's Note: This is my own variation of 3x10- "Merry Little Christmas". I hope you enjoy! I nabbed a few lines of dialogue straight from the show, but the main mission was to display House's mindset and make everything more DRAMATIC!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD!**

* * *

_Gifts I'm preparing, for some Christmas sharing_

_But I pause because_

_Hanging my stocking, I can hear a knocking_

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?  
_

_Sure is dark out, not the slightest spark out_

_Pardon my clacking jaws_

_Uh, who's there, who is it?_

_Uh, stopping for a visit..._

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

It was a cold December morning in Princeton, both literally and figuratively for House. He stared daggers at Wilson as Tritter exited his office, the glass door swinging shut silently behind him.

"When I said "Get out of my office.", that included you as well." House said, his hands curling into fists as he leaned on his desk.

"House, you've got to understand-" Wilson began, moving forward with a pleading look in his deep brown eyes.

"Understand _what_?" House snapped. "Understand that my best friend betrayed me because he had to borrow lunch money?"

"House, you've known me for years, and you know I would _never _do something like this for personal gain! I'm doing this to help you!" He exclaimed, wringing his hands.

"Help me? _Help me!?_" He was shouting now. Normally, he wouldn't have reacted as badly to this, but with the lowered dose of vicodin he was bordering on withdrawal, and his leg felt like knives were slowly being driven in and out of it. "I'm going to sit in jail because you couldn't keep your damn mouth shut!"

"Just take the deal!" Wilson burst out. "House, you're an unreasonable, stubborn ass, but even you should be able to see that this is the only option. This is the only way out. Tritter isn't going to give up until you're either in rehab or jail. Just take your pick."

"I choose 'or'." He retorted sarcastically, but not with his usual humor. "Thank you for forcing me into a position where I either have to go through months of agony and platitudes or years of guarding my ass in the shower and eating gruel in a place where cigarettes are considered currency."

"No," Wilson said firmly, the spark of rage jumping from House to the oncologist. "you forced yourself into this position by pissing off Tritter, refusing to apologize, and _stealing my pad_!"

"Yeah, because your self righteousness prevented you from giving me the pills you knew I needed. But no, House has got a problem. We have to get him off of the pills so he can be a _human being_. Show some _humility_." House's voice was mockingly high and bitter. He leaned closer to Wilson, blue eyes flashing. "Well, once I start throwing up all over myself because of the withdrawal, maybe I'll get a little of that."

"Just go to rehab!" Wilson yelled. "House, you can either stand here screaming at me for something you'll thank me for in the end, or you can just focus on what's happening right now."

"'_Thank me for in the end'_?" House repeated incredulously. "You've ruined my life!" He bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table. He lowered his head, seething. "Get the hell out of here, Wilson." House said in a dangerous whisper. He could feel the monster inside of him rearing it's head, the same monster that had punched out Chase... he hated Wilson in that moment, but he did not want to hurt him.

Wilson relented, turning his back on House. Just as his hand touched the glass door, he said something over his shoulder that was almost too quite to hear.

"I didn't ruin your life... you did."

And with that, Wilson left.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Are you bringing a present for me?_

_Something pleasantly pleasant for me?_

_That's what I've been waiting for,_

_Would you mind slipping it under the door?  
_

_Four winds are howling, or maybe that be growling_

_My legs feel like straws_

_Oh my, my, me, my, kindly would you reply?_

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?_

_Y__eah...  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House stalked down to the clinic in search of Cuddy. He needed his pills... badly. House gave a withering look to the nativity scene at the entrance, raising an eyebrow at the baby Jesus.

"Make sure Wilson doesn't see you." He whispered to himself, a fresh wave of resentment flowing through him. Where the hell did he get off betraying him to Tritter? He was the one who passive-aggressively gave up his practice. He would have gotten his car back, he would have gotten his cash back... but no, he couldn't wait for that. Better make sure House either gets 'better' or gets thrown in jail.

Rationalizing son of a bitch.

Reaching the clinic, he leaned heavily on the counter, supporting his leg as he did so.

"Where's Cuddy?" He asked Brenda, who gave him a wary look.

"Exam room one, with a patient. Why?" She asked.

"For super kinky sex, obviously." He responded as he turned on his heel and trudged towards the exam room. He tried at all costs to avoid this place, but necessity had driven him here. A few more minutes without his measly new regiment of vicodin and he'd be writhing on the ground in agony.

He threw open the door, not bothering to knock, but paused when he saw the scene inside. Midgets. And Cuddy. And the midget had stitches. _Collapsed lung. _He recognized immediately.

"Whoa." Slipped out. It wasn't every day you saw a dwarf, let alone two. Cuddy turned to look at him, as did the two midgets. "Sorry." He said, not meaning it. He held the door open. "Just need her for a _tiny_ moment... _small_ favor."

Cuddy gave him a look that said, "Normally I would be shocked that someone could be so rude and insensitive, but then I remembered you're Greg House and I would be an idiot to assume you are above any level of jackassishness."

Cuddy's looks really could say a thousand words. His favorite was "Despite the fact that you are an insufferable pain in the ass and are most likely going to kill this patient, you still make me get all hot and bothered."

The one she was giving him now, however, was definitely not his favorite.

"Pills." He explained.

"Who's the wit?" The midget who wasn't on the exam table asked.

"Doctor. Don't worry. I'll be firing him soon." She gave the woman an apologetic look before turning to House. Her look had generated down to her usual air of being pissed off at him. He noticed with a raised eyebrow that she was slightly bloated and her slacks were tighter than usual. Great. Cuddy was on her period. _That'll make things extra fun. _He thought to himself. "Wait in my office." She commanded. However, at this point House wasn't listening. He was observing the little dwarf girl.

Suddenly, his mind wasn't on the pills so much anymore.

It didn't take long to prove that Cuddy was a moron and that the midget was a lot sicker than her itsy-bitsy mother wanted to believe. Lungs don't just pop like balloons for no reason.

House got his crappy dose of pills, and her chart.

At least he would have a case to distract him from the constant pain in his leg. This only reinforced the fact that there was no way in hell he was going to rehab. If the pain now was bad... he shuddered as he began limping towards the elevators on the ground floor. He remembered when he had detoxed several years before on a bet. It had been some of the most horrendous pain he had ever experienced, on par with how he felt directly following the infarction.

There was no way he was going to rehab. He didn't have a problem. His pills took away his pain. They didn't blur his thoughts, skew his judgment. They just helped take the edge off of the pain so he could do his damn job.

He hadn't had time to discuss Wilson's betrayal with Cuddy, because he knew there was no way she would discuss something like that in front of a patient, and he had wanted to get upstairs as quickly as possible to deliver the new case to the team while the morning coffee was still hot. If there was ever a day he needed a good cup, it was today.

Within minutes he arrived outside the differential room, the midget's chart and lungs scans in tow.

"Santa needs us!" He proclaimed. He went to toss the file to Chase, but paused.

Chase wasn't there.

"Where's Chase?" House asked immediately, instead choosing to just hand the file to Cameron.

"Not here." Foreman said evasively.

"You're skills of observation astound me." House said edgily. He turned his eyes on Cameron. "Where is he?" She averted her eyes.

"How should I know?"

"Because if you two really didn't know, you would have just said 'I don't know' instead of evading the question. I repeat, where is Chase?"

"He's... not coming in today." Cameron said finally.

"Why?"

"Maybe because you gave him a right hook directly to the jaw?" Foreman asked rhetorically. "I don't know if you missed that class in med school House, but most people don't really like getting punched in the face."

"I was in pain." House replied, echoing what he said to Wilson earlier, although with less of a harsh tone.

"That's no excuse-"

"New patient!" House exclaimed, cutting off the beginning of Foreman's lecture. "I just admitted a cartilage-hair hypoplasia dwarf. Fifteen years old-" House broke off, looking at Cameron, who hadn't touched the file. "Believe it or not, I gave that to you to _read_."

"What are you going to do?" She burst out worriedly.

"I'm not taking the deal." He answered simply.

"Why the hell not? Listen, I get you're pissed that Wilson ratted, but you've got to do this, House." House met Foreman's eyes, but completely disregarded what he said. Taking life advice from Foreman, not really something he strived for.

"Unexplained lung collapse and anemia. Cuddy thinks it's idiopathic. Cuddy and 'idiop' being the relative parts of that sentence."

"So, what, you're just going to do nothing?" Cameron asked.

"No, I thought I'd cure her. Seeing as I'm a doctor and all."

"House, you know-"

"Maybe you should take my deflection and feigned ignorance to be a sign that it's not up for discussion." He pursed his lips as Cameron lowered her eyes in defeat and opened the file. "All signs point to TB, but Cuddy already ruled it out. Ideas?"

"Cartilage-hair hypoplasia dwarfs generally have weakened immune systems. The test for TB involves planting a fragment of TB under the skin to see if the immune system recognizes it.. If she already had a compromised immune system, our patient could have TB and not recognize it." She explained quickly.

"Gold star of David for Cameron. Foreman, Cameron, go see Frodo and Bilbo about the gallium scan." They both nodded. House grabbed his coat and cane, preparing to head out himself.

"Where are you going?" Cameron asked before stepping out of the room.

"I'm going to go find our missing elf."

**xxxxxx  
**

_Oh hanging my stocking_

_I can hear a knocking_

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?  
_

_Yeah, say now_

_Hey there, who is it?_

_Stopping for a visit..._

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House knocked on Chase's door, hoping the young doctor was near the door so he could get out of the freezing weather. He heard a muffled call from inside.

"Hold on!"

Within thirty seconds time, Chase appeared at the door, opening it slowly. He narrowed his eyes at House. House could see the deep, purplish bruise on his jaw bone, and surprisingly felt a sharp pang of remorse. Perhaps he had overreacted just a little bit...

"What do you want, House?" He asked. His voice held none of the typical respect or reverence it usually did. Chase's whole demeanor expressed a strong distaste for House at the moment.

"I want to know why you're here and not at work." He told him simply.

"You punched me in the face." Chase stated.

"I was in pain."

"Does that excuse actually work on anyone?" He asked. House glared at him.

"I get you're pissed at me. _Get over it._ Get your ass to work." He commanded roughly.

"Afraid not." Chase answered, the ghost of a mirthless smirk on his face. House searched his face, not understanding. "I quit."

He promptly slammed the door in House's face without another word.

House stood there for a long moment, shivering slightly in the blustery, cold and unforgiving December wind. Sighing, he turned his back on Chase's apartment and walked back to his car. He opened the door and ducked inside, relishing the residual heat from the heater. He cranked it up all the way as he started the car.

So, Chase was done.

Interesting.

Depressing, but interesting.

Chase was a good doctor. Replacing him would be difficult. He had to say, he was surprised. He always assumed Foreman would be the first to leave their little 'family', not Chase.

He suddenly felt proud of Chase. Good for him for standing up for himself.

Too bad it was for something so stupid and pointless as a punch to the face. Chase knew what he was getting in to. He was tempting fate just talking to House in the mood he was in, pushing him backwards when he was trying to move past him was just pure idiocy. His idiocy may have saved Alice Hartman's life, but nevertheless, it was still moronic.

Yes, this was Chase's fault. Or more indirectly, Cuddy's fault for not giving him enough pills to function with.

Placating himself with that, he began the drive back to Princeton to see how their dwarf was doing.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Whoa there Santa, you gave me a scare_

_Now stop teasing, 'cause I know you're there_

_We don't believe in no goblins today_

_But I can't explain why I'm shaking this way  
_

_Well I see old Santa in the keyhole_

_I'll give to the cause_

_One peek and I'll try there_

_Uh-oh there's an eye there_

_'Zat you, Santa Claus?  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

"Gallium scan shows no bright spots of any kind." Cameron explained as her, House and Foreman gazed at the results of the midget's scan. "It's not TB, or any other type of infection."

"The only reason there's no bright spots is because the whole thing is too bright." House said, leaning his chin on his cane. The entire scan was lit up like Time Square, and he could tell it wasn't just over exposure from the lab. Cameron pursed her lips.

"House, did you talk to Chase?" Cameron asked, concern etched on her pretty features.

"If I wanted to talk about it, I would have brought it up." He answered, not meeting her eyes.

"Whatever this is, it's in her liver. Look at it." He tapped the scan with his cane, drawing Foreman and Cameron's attention to it.

"The liver looks fine." Cameron said, confused.

"Could be lung cancer." Foreman suggested, completely disregarding House. "Tumor causes structural damage, the lung caves in on itself. Also explains the anemia."

"Doesn't explain the liver problem, though." House pointed out mildly.

"House, there is no liver problem. You're just trying to avoid Wilson. The tech over exposed the image. Her liver isn't shutting down."

"Have you seen this thing? Everything on this scan is blazing except for her liver. That means something... and lung cancer is a lame diagnosis. Avoiding Jimmy the rat is just an added bonus." He muttered as he heard the door squeak open.

"House, we need to talk." _Oh God. _It was Cuddy. Wilson had talked to Cuddy, and now they were going to tag team him.

"Busy saving lives. As the kids say these days, 'ttyl'." He said, turning back to the scan. He didn't have time for this shit right now.

"House-"

"Fine. We'll talk. I'm not taking the deal. Wonderful little chat. Now go." He turned to Foreman and Cameron.

"Ultrasound her liver."

"Did you know that Chase quit?" She asked. House nodded.

"Yep." He jerked his head to the door. "Dwarf. Liver. Now." Cuddy turned to them.

"Sit down!" She commanded, causing his team to shrink back in their seats.

"Stand up." House tried. Cameron looked at him fearfully and Foreman breathed heavily through his nose, but neither heeded his command. "Good job. Simon Says is fun, isn't it?"

"You're off the case, House. I'm suspending your treatment privileges and cutting off your vicodin until you take the deal." She said bluntly.

House's whole world came crashing down around him, and he struggled not to show it. His job. His pills. Two of the three things that mattered the most in his life were suddenly ripped away before his very eyes, and he had pushed away the third thing that mattered to him: Wilson.

Right now, he hated his best friend a thousand times more than he already did. This was Wilson's fault. Wilson, Tritter, and now Cuddy. All now objects of his resentment and rage.

He kept it cool, though, considering.

"You'll fold. You need me." He stated coldly. Cuddy ignored him, looking at Foreman and Cameron.

"Do an MRI of her lungs." They both glanced awkwardly at each other and edged their way past Cuddy and out the door. Cuddy sighed, lowering eyes for a long moment before meeting House's.

"You'll fold." He repeated.

"I hope you're wrong." She said quietly. "For everyone's sake."

**xxxxxx  
**

_Please, please_

_I pity my knees_

_Say that's you Santa Claus_

_That's him alright  
_

**xxxxxx**

* * *

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed! Please review, part two will be along soon enough... :D Also, all rights to 'Zat You, Santa Claus? go to Harry Connick Jr.**


	2. Act 2

**Merry Little Christmas**

**A House MD Fanfiction**

**Part 2: One or Dozens**

**Author's Note: Made an oopsies in the last chapter, "Zat You, Santa Claus?" was actually written by James Fox. Anyway, here's part two!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD!  
**

* * *

_These are your good years_

_So take my advice_

_You never wanted the nice boys anyway  
_

_And I'm of good cheer_

_'Cause I've been checking my list_

_The gifts you'll be receiving from me, will be...  
_

**xxxxxx**

Tritter must have missed something.

House had been ripping through his apartment for the past hour, trying to find something, anything he could use to dull the ever increasing pain in his leg. He judged he had roughly three hours before the vicodin he had taken from Cuddy earlier in the day would leave his system. Then the withdrawal would start in full force.

He had to find something before that happened. He could not go through that again.

The contents of both his bedroom and hallway closets lay spread out on the floor, helter skelter and carelessly tossed to the side during his frantic search. House checked every shoe and every coat pocket. Nothing. Tritter's boys had been thorough. Ditto for the bedroom closet.

Hope fading, he checked his nightstand, his cupboards, under his bed, ripping out every item in any container. Still nothing.

He moved to the bathroom. Medicine cabinet, unsurprisingly empty. They had even found the pills he had hidden in an aspirin container. He looked around the room, his eyes settling on the mirror.

_The mirror!_

Not taking any time to think, he grabbed the edges of the mirror and ripped it off of the wall, revealing the hole in the wall behind.

Nothing.

_But how?_

Cursing himself, House remembered that he had cleared out his super secret back up stash out when he'd gotten shot. He'd built up many of his other stashes since he started using again, but he had neglected this one.

"Dammit!" House yelled, letting his fist fly into the wall. Why hadn't he replaced the stash? _Because I didn't think I'd be the subject of some asshole's crazy vendetta, or that my friends would all turn on me! _He answered himself.

Take the deal or go through extremely painful withdrawal and subsequent jail time. _Thank you so much, Wilson. _He thought bitterly.

As though his thoughts had summoned him, he heard a knock on the door.

"House?" A timid voice asked.

"Go away!" He shouted. Wilson was the last person he wanted to talk to now... or ever, for that matter.

"House, please just let me in. I want to talk to you." Wilson's voice almost had a note of pleading in it. House stepped out of the bathroom and glared at the door. There was no way in hell he was letting Wilson in.

"Go talk to Tritter. You seem to enjoy that more than talking to me." He spat at Wilson, making sure that there was just enough acid in his voice to sting. He was done pulling punches.

"You know I have a key to get in. I'm just being polite by asking." Wilson said, and House could tell he was trying to cover the hurt in his voice. A sick thrill of satisfaction went through him. _Good_. He wanted to hurt Wilson. He wanted revenge for the situation he'd put him in.

"I'll call the cops." House threatened, despite the fact that they both knew he wouldn't. House wasn't exactly on lovely terms with the police at the moment.

"No, you won't." Wilson sighed. He heard the fumbling of a hand and a soft click, and Wilson pushed open the door, standing hesitantly in the doorway. He was dressed for work, he'd probably taken a late lunch break. House stared daggers at him.

"Get. Out." He demanded, gritting his teeth and tightening a hand on his cane.

"House-"

"Shut up. Seriously. Just shut up and get the hell out of my apartment." He didn't want to hear Wilson's lame rationalizations about how he'd done it to "help him" or how he had "a problem". No. He was done listening to Wilson's bullshit.

"Please, I know you hate me right now, but you have to take the deal!" Wilson insisted, wringing his hands. "There's no alternative!"

"Yes, thanks to you there is no alternative!" House yelled. He took several steps forward, hoping to scare Wilson out of his apartment. His friend (_ex friend_, he thought murderously) shrank back slightly, but stood his ground. "It's either painful withdraw, or painful withdraw. And then after that I get to live in even more pain than I already do. Excellent job. You, Cuddy, Foreman, _everyone_- everything is the pills. The pills are a problem. I don't have a pill problem, I have a _pain _problem. My judgment has never once been compromised by my pills-" He knew he was ranting, but at this point he didn't care. The white hot rage coursing through him needed an outlet, and Wilson had been the one foolish enough to cross his path. However, the oncologist cut him off.

"You nearly cut a little girl in half! You punched out Chase!" Wilson yelled back.

"BECAUSE YOU TOOK ME OFF MY FUCKING PILLS!" House bellowed so loudly that his voice went hoarse on the last word. He was breathing harshly, his hands shaking. He struggled to calm himself. "The pain clouds my judgment. The pain stops me from doing my job. The pain is the problem, not my pills. The dwarf girl is going to die because you're too self righteous to admit you made a mistake and give me the pills that I _need_." He had dropped his voice, but malice hung in every word. In all his years of being friends with Wilson, he had never once been this furious with him, or trying this hard to intentionally hurt him.

"No, a normal person takes what they _need_. You take ten times the amount you _need_." Wilson's voice had turned snide, his brown eyes flashing with anger. He was pissed off now as well.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to experience muscle death?" House asked. "Imagine someone taking a knife, stabbing it into your thigh muscle, and _twisting_. Forever. And it never stops. And the only way to lessen it enough to function like a normal human being-" Wilson snorted at this. "-is to take vicodin. It helps the pain just enough to let me do my job and live my life. The knife is still there, but it stops twisting. If I didn't have the pills, I'd go insane. Which is what's going to happen because of you." House's voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. His blue eyes bored into Wilson's brown, and he hoped hatred was visible in every inch of them.

"You don't take them to help your pain..." He stated, turning his back on House. "You take them to numb _everything_." The door opened, then closed. Wilson was gone.

**xxxxxx  
**

_One awkward silence_

_Two hopes you cry yourself to sleep_

_Staying up, waiting by the phone  
_

_And all I want this year_

_Is for you to dedicate your last breath to me_

_Before you bury yourself alive  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House was running out of options. He had to get his pills, and he couldn't wait until Cuddy came begging him for help. He had to take action. He knew where Cuddy kept his pills, now it was only a matter of getting them.

A screwdriver in his pocket, House surreptitiously opened the door to Cuddy's office and slipped inside. Glancing over his shoulder, he limped quickly over to her desk, plopping himself down in her chair. He jostled the desk drawer, hoping in vain that it might be open. No such luck. Sighing, he ducked his head and grabbed the screwdriver from his pocket. He dropped the screwdriver. Damn. His hands were getting sweaty. It was six thirty, it had been eight hours since his last pills... the sweats and nausea were already creeping in, and upon examining his appearance in his car mirror, he had seen that his eyes were bloodshot.

He had to get these pills.

Scooping the screwdriver off of the ground, he placed the tip in the lock and began jostling it. He was out of practice when it came to lock picking now that he had his lackeys to break into patient's homes. He turned the screwdriver fruitlessly back and forth. _Where the hell does Cuddy keep the key?_

He heard the office door open and jerked his head up, terrified he'd been caught. He was relieved to see Foreman there instead, a black angel fallen from Harlem.

"Where's Cuddy?" He asked.

"Not here, thankfully." House responded, noting that his voice was still hoarse from his shouting match with Wilson earlier in the day.

"I assume that's where she's keeping your pills." Foreman said with a frown, stepping forward so he was in front of the desk.

"That would be an astute observation." House commented, still struggling with the lock. "Dwarf dead yet?"

"No, but she had a varisceal bleed. You were right about the liver failure-" He began, but House cut him off with a shake of the head.

"Sorry. Mistress Cuddy has deemed me unfit to give my medical opinion." He muttered.

"Liver biopsy was negative for cirrhosis, but it showed signs of sclerosing cholangitis." Foreman continued, disregarding House. He placed the results of the liver biopsy on the desk in front of House. _Resist urge, resist urge, resist urge! _He yelled at himself. He couldn't let the puzzles draw him back in and force him to take the deal.

In spite of himself, he glanced at them, raking his eyes over the results. _No increase in alkaline phosphates... interesting. _This added with the gallium scans indicated that the lungs and the liver weren't going to be the first victim of whatever the midget had. It would undoubtedly hit her pancreas next...

But Cuddy would be too focused on the liver, and would stubbornly refuse to worry about the other organs. He guaranteed she hadn't considered this to be a systemic illness.

He smirked. House had found himself a bargaining chip.

"Seems like our positions here are switched... I'm the medical genius, you're an ex larcenist." He offered Foreman the screwdriver. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours." Foreman rolled his eyes, sighed heavily, and grabbed the screwdriver from him. House blinked in surprise as Foreman came around the other side of the desk.

"Really? I thought you'd be all for this torture House plan." House said as Foreman began picking the lock with hands much more deft than his own.

"I'm not all for this torture the patient plan." He responded, brow furrowed. House nodded.

"Alright, well, as for the midget..." He took a breath as Foreman dropped the screwdriver and exchanged it for a paper clip off of Cuddy's desk, which he quickly bent out of shape. "Forget about the specific nature of the liver dysfunction, it's irrelevant. Her problem is global, that's why the gallium scan was bright. It's going to spread throughout her entire body unless you stop it." He informed him, leaning over to observe Foreman's work.

"If that were true, more than her lungs and liver would be affected." Foreman muttered dubiously as he continued working at the drawer. He jerked his head towards the door, indicating that House should keep watch.

"It will be." He continued. "It'll spread through the biliary tree and hit her pancreas next. Stop retracing your steps, get ahead of it. Forget the liver and focus on the pancreas, because after that... well, after that it doesn't really matter because all roads lead to a dead dwarf." The drawer opened with a satisfying click just as he finished. _Perfect timing._

"I get why you don't want to go to rehab." Foreman said, still standing in front of the drawer. "But only an idiot goes to jail for being stubborn." House ignored him and shouldered him out of the way, leaning down and ripping open the drawer. He began throwing out the contents, not caring whether Cuddy found out he had been here or not. As long as he got his pills...

There! A bottle! He grabbed for it, examining the bottle. His heart sank. It was just Midol. No vicodin. Cuddy must have disposed of it after she had cut him off.

"Shit." House cursed, slamming the drawer shut heavily and clenching his hands into fists. Foreman looked at him with pity. It made his stomach clench with disgust. He hated being pitied.

"Sorry." Foreman said as he began walking away, and he actually sounded like he meant it.

"Wait!" House called, hating the desperation in his voice. "I'll help with the patient. I'll do anything. I just need my pills." Pleading. God, he hated himself in that moment. But he was coming down, and if he didn't get something really soon he'd be in full blown withdrawal by midnight. Foreman stopped on his way out the door.

"House... you need to take the deal. If I get you pills, you'll get thrown in jail. I don't want that to happen." Before House could get the words out to argue, Foreman was out the door. He shook his head and backed up from Cuddy's desk, leaning his head against the wall.

"Shit." He repeated, biting his lip to try and focus. The pain was getting worse by the second, and he was leaning much more heavily on his cane than usual.

An idea suddenly sprang to him. _If I can't get them here..._

Grabbing his coat, which lay discarded on the chair, he walked quickly out of Cuddy's office, deciding he truly didn't give a damn if she knew he had broken into her desk.

You shouldn't get between Ahab and his whale.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I want to see_

_Underneath the tree_

___Merry Christmas, I could care less_

_Happy New Year's baby,_

_You owe me the best gift_

_I will ever ask for  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

He had driven two hours through a raging snow storm to reach St. Sebastian's clinic, and he hoped the drive had been worth it. He had spent years learning how to weed out drug seekers when he had done clinic duty, he hoped he could emulate them well enough.

He walked in to the clinic, smiling at the receptionist. The clinic was empty. Two days before Christmas, people had more important things to do than get their privates swabbed or their stuffy noses examined.

"You can just head right in to exam room two. Dr. Sheppard is in there." She told him. "Just sign up here." He nodded, taking the pen. He obviously wasn't going to use his real one. He wrote the first name that came to mind.

_James Wilson. _He wrote in his narrow scrawl. Giving the receptionist another winning smile, he made his way to the exam room. He pushed open the door.

"Hello." A young black haired doctor greeted him. "Happy Holidays."

"Thanks." House responded, making his voice sound lower and dumber than usual. "I was in a car accident a little while ago, and now my face hurts real bad. Mind taking a look?" Dr. Sheppard nodded.

"Sure, just come sit on the exam table and I'll check it out." House gingerly placed his cane to the side and hopped up on the table, leaning forward.

"Where exactly does it hurt?"

"Right here." House said, pointing to the top of his cheek bone. The doctor reached out with a hand and began feeling around. When he hit the zygomatic, House let out a sound of protest.

"There's no bruise or nothing, but it really hurts." He explained, not having any difficulty keeping a straight face. Years of either lying to patients or playing poker had made him an excellent actor.

"Unfortunately, that pain and lack of bruising is typical of a zygomatic break." Dr. Sheppard explained.

"Oh." House responded dumbly, giving him a blank stare. "Sounds bad."

"Hmm... Bones are aligned properly. Which ER did you go to after the car accident?" He asked, moving away from House.

"Princeton Plainsboro. Here's my discharge slip." He offered Dr. Sheppard the yellow discharge slip he had forged before he left the hospital.

"Okay. I'm going to get you some acetaminophen with codeine-"

"I tried that, it makes me nauseous." House said innocently.

"There's a drug called Gabapentin which is good for certain kinds of pain-"

"Great. I haven't slept in days." He said. _Here we go... _

"Gabapentin's not really going to help with the sleep." _No shit, moron. _How much prodding was he going to have to do before he said the magic word?

"Oh. Well, is there something else you can give me?" House asked. Dr. Sheppard pursed his lips.

"Well, vicodin is your best bet with sleep issues-"

"Thanks so much." House responded, doing an internal victory dance. _Score!_

"Unfortunately, our policy forbids prescribing opiates to new patients." _Fuck. _He was sweating, his leg was screaming, he felt like he was going to puke. He did not have time for this.

"How can a clinic have a rule against relieving pain?" He asked, flashing with irritation.

"Just with opiates. We find that it helps weed out drug-seekers." Dr. Sheppard explained.

"You think I'm a drug seeker?" _Maybe you're smarter than I thought_.

"I'm not saying that." He reassured him.

"Then give me the vicodin." House demanded, trying to keep his wild temper in check.

"I can't." The doctor repeated, seeming to lose his patience.

"Because you think I'm a drug seeker." House accused again.

"I just said that I didn't!"

"No, you said that the policy was to stop drug seeking. Then you said I'm not a drug seeker. Policy doesn't apply." _Come on logic, just work for me this time._

"I'm sorry. That's the policy." Ah. The fallback if a doctor doesn't know what to do. House's temper broke.

"Gabapentin works on nerve damage! You're prescribing it for a broken face. Might as well hand out band-aids for a severed carotid!" He said loudly. Damn. He'd blown his cover, but at this point he didn't care.

"You're a doctor!" Dr. Sheppard declared, shocked.

"Brilliant deduction. Now give me the damn vicodin so I can go home and get some sleep."

"Were you even in a car accident?" He asked.

"I'm in pain, and I need my pills!" He shouted. Dr. Sheppard grabbed the phone off the receiver.

"Security." He requested.

"Forget it." House spat. "I'll throw myself out." He pushed himself off of the exam room table and promptly left the room. What a moron, what a mindless drone-

As he stepped out into reception, his leg collapsed from under him. He cursed, dragging himself off of the ground. The receptionist was running over.

"Sir, are you-" She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Get the hell off of me, I'm fine." He said, pushing her away and stumbling back into the freezing winter cold. "Fuck..." He leaned against the wall, searching through the cold for his car. Finding it, he limped over as quickly as his screaming leg would allow. He got there and sank into the driver's seat after cranking on the heater.

"What am I going to do?" He asked the empty car. Silence was his only answer.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Don't call me up_

_When the snow comes down_

_It's the only thing I want this year  
_

_One awkward silence_

_And two hopes you cry yourself to sleep_

_Staying up, waiting by the phone  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House collapsed on his couch, gasping in pain. It was nine o'clock. No word from Cuddy. No pills. Lots of pain.

He shoved his face into the throw pillow, trying to focus on anything other than his leg. _You think it's bad now, wait for tomorrow... that's when the fun really begins. _He fumbled in the dark for the remote control, having not bothered to turn the lights on when he stumbled into his apartment. Finding it, he clicked it on. Animal Planet. Something about lions. Good enough.

He sat and stared blankly at the screen in his dark apartment, feeling more miserable than he had since Stacy left. He had to admit that maybe he could have dealt with the rising pain in his leg if he hadn't felt so betrayed. Cuddy and Wilson, two of the only people that he gave a damn about, had stabbed him in the back.

Tonight was not a good night. Even though it was only ten o'clock, he wanted nothing more than to sleep. After the lion special was over, he struggled up and forced himself to the kitchen. He opened the liquor cabinet, grabbing the first bottle he saw and retreating gratefully to the couch. Collapsing once more, he opened the bottle and drank straight from it. He saw now that it was bourbon. Excellent. His favorite sleep aid. They may have taken his pills, but at least Cuddy and Wilson couldn't cut him off from his booze.

He was going to take advantage of their pain dulling abilities while he could before his stomach lost the ability to keep anything down, which he assumed would be soon. Until then, he was going to enjoy the mild numbing effect the alcohol could offer him.

Within a few minutes, he had drained a quarter of the bottle and had a pleasant buzzing sensation between his ears. His leg pained him slightly less, and his pain decreasing even minutely was a huge relief. He sagged into the couch, the room starting to spin slowly. Taking another large swig, he prayed to the God he didn't believe in that sleep would come and take him away, at least temporarily.

Finally, after the bottle lay half empty on the table, House felt his eyelids fall. Taking a deep breath, he drifted into the warm embrace of intoxicated slumber.

**xxxxxx  
**

_And all I want this year_

_Is for you to dedicate your last breath to me_

_Before you bury yourself alive  
_

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I want to see_

_Underneath the tree  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

Morning dawned too bright and far too early for House. The sun streaming in from his windows peeled his eyelids apart, nearly blinding him. He flipped over onto his stomach and stared instead into the dark recesses of his couch. He felt three hundred times worse than he had when he had gone to sleep. He was now hung-over and going through withdrawal. He had an unbelievable headache, he could tell by the unnatural warmth in his body that he was feverish, and of course he was sweating like a pig.

And his stomach was yelling to eject it's contents. He managed to fight the urge for a few moments before he finally forced himself up. Barely able to move with his flaming leg, he collapsed several feet from the couch. Unable to reach the bathroom or trashcan, he vomited onto the ground next to him. His throat burned as he choked out the last bits, and he fell onto his back, trying not to breathe through his nose.

Alcohol could not help him now. He would just throw up anything he put in his system. There was absolutely nothing left to dull the pain. Truly, the only thing he could do was wait out the withdrawal.

But House was not a patient man. He searched in his mind for anything, anything he could do to get himself out of this mess. Other than taking the deal, of course. Actually, taking the deal would change absolutely nothing. It was either detox in his apartment or detox in a rehab facility. He'd choose his apartment any day.

He hoped desperately that Cuddy would crack... and soon.

He laid on the floor of his apartment for about twenty minutes before he built up the strength to crawl to the bathroom. There, he laid by the toilet, anticipating the next wave of nausea. When it came, he now had the toilet to spill the contents of his stomach into.

For the next few hours, it was a blur of pain and retching. Throughout all of it he cursed Wilson for doing this to him. The selfish bastard...

Finally, shortly before noon, he heard a knock on the door. _Oh, thank God. She's folded! _Using ever last ounce of willpower he had left, House forced himself up. Without a cane (it was on the floor where he had collapsed) maneuvering to the door was difficult. He just kept one thought in his mind. _She'll give me my pills. She'll give me my pills. She'll give me my pills._

He ripped open the door to see Cuddy, looking beautiful as ever and draped in a white satin scarf. He doubted he looked very appealing at the moment, stinking of sweat and vomit and with his eyes red and wet. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment before she spoke,

"You were right. The patient's pancreas is failing."

House couldn't suppress a smile.

"Don't go all in if you don't have a good hand." He said smugly. "Give me my pills and the midget will be back at Santa's work shop in no time." Cuddy ignored him.

"Her insulin production is almost non-existent." House stared at her when she said this. Was she not going to give him his pills?

He realized with a sinking feeling that she wasn't. Cuddy wasn't too proud to ask for help, but she was too proud to give him anything in exchange for it.

He went to slam the door, but Cuddy stopped him, giving him a furious look.

"Give me my pills, or lose an arm." He growled. He didn't have time to be playing differential games. He needed his damn meds before he lost his mind.

"This girl is dying and you're more worried about-" She said, accusation lacing her tone.

"More worried about my fix? Yeah, I am actually, seeing as that's the only thing I can fucking think about. I've been hanging over a toilet all morning, feeling like something is biting chunks out of my leg. Pardon me if I'm not filled with Christmas cheer. If you want my help, give me my pills." He said roughly. His vision was starting to go fuzzy, and his leg was screaming in protest. He couldn't bare to stand up much longer, even if he was supporting himself on the doorframe.

"Take the deal and I will." She responded adamantly.

"What point could that possibly serve? If I take the deal, I have to give up my pills anyway. I want my pills, I don't want to go to rehab. It's my way or no way."

"You'll go to jail!" She said loudly.

"Oh well." He shrugged. "Blame Wilson. Now give me my pills."

"No!" She exclaimed. He sighed.

"You'd rather kill the midget than give me my pills?" He asked. Guilt. That was the one tool he had left against Cuddy.

"I would rather lose one patient now than the dozens we'll lose while you're in prison." She explained, her eyes pleading with him to help.

"Well, have fun explaining that to her itsy-bitsy grieving mother." He snarled. Before she could respond, he slammed the door in her face.

The extra motion jarred his body, and he collapsed against the wall. Whimpering in pain, he curled up there, unable to move. The only thing that existed was the pain. And hate.

Hatred for Wilson.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Merry Christmas, I could care less_

_Don't come home for Christmas_

_You're the last thing I want to see_

_Underneath the tree  
_

_Merry Christmas, I could care less  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading, please review! All rights to "Yule Shoot Your Eye Out" go to Fall Out Boy.**


	3. Act 3

**Merry Little Christmas**

**A House MD Fanfiction**

**Act 3: Crossing Lines**

**Author's Note: I really love the different ways people are ****interpreting this! I'm having a good time writing the story... I hope you guys enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD.  
**

* * *

_The jingle bells are jingling_

_The streets are white with snow_

_The happy crowds are mingling_

_But there's no one that I know  
_

_I'm sure that you'll forgive me_

_If I don't enthuse_

_I guess I've got the Christmas Blues  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House finally managed to force himself off of the wall and into a standing position. Looking down at his tee-shirt, he saw that he had dribbled puke on it, he decided he needed to change.

He slowly shuffled towards his bedroom, feeling like a helpless old man. Once he arrived he tossed off his shirt and replaced it with a new one. He also threw on a blue sweatshirt. The chills were starting to set in.

Heading back to the main part of the apartment, he grabbed the largest pot he had and brought it with him to the couch. He didn't know if he'd be able to make it to the bathroom later.

House was barely coherent. He wasn't sure whether to attribute that to his leg or the pounding, relentless migraine that was progressively getting worse. He groaned, throwing a blanket over himself and turning on his side.

He managed to stay there, alternating between puking and trembling violently under his blanket for about two hours before he could not longer take the pain. He shakily stood up from the couch, supporting himself on the coffee table and trying to ignore the smell of vomit that permeated the apartment. He made his way slowly to the kitchen. The only thing that had helped last time had been when he purposely smashed his hand with a pestle.

Reaching the knife rack, he pulled up the sleeve of his left arm, revealing his pale skin below. Gulping, he grabbed the sharpest knife he had with his right hand. Touching the ice cold steel to his skin, he drew it across. He howled with pain, but rejoiced in it as well. For just a moment, the withdrawal symptoms seemed to go away. The pain in his leg diminished ever so slightly. Heartened by the infinitesimal improvement, he drew the knife across his skin again. And again. And again.

When he was done, he had six perfectly straight and profusely bleeding cuts on his arm. Starting to feel light headed and not motivated enough to do anything other than haphazardly bandage it, he went back to the couch and slowly lowered himself down, not wanting to jostle his leg too badly.

The cutting helped somewhat, but he still was in no state to do much of anything other than lay there in agony. He kept hoping, praying for a knock on the door. When it came, he decided to set the terms of entry right off of the bat.

"Unless you've got vicodin, go away!" He called, his voice matching how he felt. Hoarse, but also pleading. _Please, God, let it be Cuddy with my pills..._

"House... it's me." _Cameron? _His mouth twitched, almost causing a small smile. Cameron. She was weak. All he needed was for her to take one glance at his disheveled state and she'd be running off to the pharmacy to get him a basketful of pills, if she hadn't already.

Forcing himself up with a groan, House stumbled to the door. He gripped the doorframe for dear life, digging in his fingernails. Hands trembling, he opened his front door, to reveal a very worried looking Cameron, whose concern seemed to increase ten fold upon seeing him. _Good._

"Oh God..." She trailed off, blue eyes wide. House was both thrilled and disgusted by the pity in her gaze. _Pity equals vicodin. My pride can take a backseat for the time being. _"House, I don't have any pills." He cursed inwardly. She had seen the desperate look in his eyes... and she had nothing to relieve it.

"Then why knock?" He asked, trying to inject venom into his voice, but failing miserably. He had to sit down, the room was starting to spin... He made move to fling the door shut in her face, but Cameron, like Cuddy, stopped him.

"House..." She didn't seem to know what to say. Her eyes darted to his hastily bandaged arm. "What happened to your arm?"

"Cut myself." He mumbled, deciding not to elaborate. Cameron looked at him for a long moment, then pressed passed him and into the apartment. House rolled his eyes, exasperated and frustrated that he was too weak to stop her. She stood in front of him and put a gentle hand on his arm. She guided him wordlessly to the couch, at least knowing him well enough not to try and soothe him with words, or any other meaningless platitudes she could muster. She eased him down onto the couch, which he sank back into. He closed his eyes, trying to drag his mind away from the constant, painful assault on his body. He heard Cameron's footsteps fade into his bathroom. The small part of him that was still rational and reasoning resented Cameron entitling herself to go and rifle through his possessions, or whatever the hell she was doing. By the sounds of it, she was in his bathroom.

Suddenly, she was back, her hands pealing off the make-shift bandage on his arm. She slid the sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm, revealing the parallel cuts. Cameron began to dab at them, her forehead creased with anxiety. _If she cares so damn much, why didn't she bring me my pills?_

"Wilson was wrong about lymphoma." She began. _She's going to talk about the case?_ "Abigail isn't losing any weight, she doesn't have night sweats... I think it's lupus." She glanced at House, looking for confirmation... looking for an opinion._ Looking for help._

"I'm not helping you." He said in a monotone. "The midget dies, it's on Wilson and Cuddy."

"No." Cameron suddenly said, rubbing one of his cuts just a little too hard, eliciting a shock of pain and a groan of agony. "Sorry." She said, not sounding it at all. "No, this is on _you_, House. You stole Wilson's pad. You pissed Tritter off. You refused to apologize. You nearly cut Alice Hartman in half. You punched out Chase, and now _you're_ the one refusing to take the deal. What Wilson did was wrong. What Cuddy's doing is wrong... but you're the one who created the situation in the first place." He stared at Cameron as she said this, unable to believe what he was hearing. Cameron was condemning him as well? Even her blind adoration and loyalty has it's limits, he supposed.

"Really? I was under the impression that it was Tritter's idea to start this witch hunt. Silly me." Cameron ignored him as she began to put fresh new bandages on his wounds. "_Don't_." He slapped her hand away. "Just... just get out of here. I'm tired." Cameron stood up, looking at him. He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

"No." She said adamantly, her voice fierce with determination. "I won't leave you here to suffer alone." She sank back down on one knee in front of him. "I'm staying here with you, whether you like it or not."

**xxxxxx  
**

_I've done my window shopping_

_There's not a store I've missed_

_But what's the use of stopping_

_When there's no one on your list  
_

_You'll know the way I'm feeling_

_When you love and you lose_

_I guess I've got the Christmas blues  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

House heard Cameron as she stepped into the kitchen and called Cuddy. He had told her she didn't need to stay, that he wanted to be alone, that she was a hypocrite for staying if she didn't agree with his decision not to take the deal, that he wasn't just a sick puppy she could nurse back to help...

None of these arguments worked. He was laying down on the couch now, trying to hold in the now slim contents of his stomach while he listened in on Cameron and Cuddy's phone conversation.

"It's me. Are you asking because you care or because you want to know how close he is to giving up? He's detoxing in agony, and he won't help. Can you blame him? If he helps with the case then he's got no leverage to get pills. No. He _cut_ himself, Cuddy. You know he won't take the deal, he- _no_, absolutely not. You know my opinion. It's autoimmune. About that, that's why I'm calling. I'm not leaving him here alone. You don't know what- I'm serious. Well, then let him have his pills. I don't agree with what Wilson did, and you holding back House's pills is torture for him. It's not fair." Amen sister, he thought blearily as he continued to strain his ears to hear Cameron's side of the conversation.

"If you need me, call me. Well, his only two friends have stabbed him in the back. He needs someone. No, of course he doesn't want me to stay, have you met him? Listen, I'm going to stay until he gets past the worst of it... I'll take an emergency personal day, I have enough saved up. Fine. Okay. You know I won't. Okay. Run the ANA... no. Ear infections are typical of- I _know_, but it's a global systemic illness, and cancer- okay, okay. Alright. Call me when you get the results." He heard a quiet beep as Cameron hung up the phone. He forced his eyes to her as she crossed from the kitchen to the living room. She stopped and met his eyes. He saw they still had the shiny quality they had earlier when she had first seen him. Her eyes released his, moving down to the hours old vomit on the floor he had neglected to clean up. Taking a heavy breath, Cameron stripped herself of her coat and headed back to the bathroom, no doubt looking for cleaning supplies. As she did, another wave of nausea hit him, and he retched painfully into the large pot for the umpteenth time. The stench of barf stung at his nostrils, causing his stomach to do flips and threaten to reject it's contents once more. _Shit, how is there even anything left in me?_

Cameron returned with a mop and bucket, and set about cleaning up the floor. He watched her as she worked, his feverish mind picking up on things he wouldn't have noticed before. The way the light caught her auburn hair, causing it to dazzle in the dim illumination of his apartment. The way she pursed her lips, biting down lightly on the bottom one when she was worried or upset. She really was pretty... but that didn't matter now. Right now he just wanted her to get the hell out so he could lay here and wallow in his own misery. He didn't need her. _I don't need anyone..._

_But she's the only connection I have to the outside world right now. She's the only chance I have at getting my pills... _

"Cameron." He croaked as she began to head back to the bathroom with the mop. She stopped cold and looked at him. "Please."

If there was one thing House hated doing more than anything else, it was pleading. But sometimes people had to do things they didn't like to get what they want. He let the tears of agony he had been struggling to keep out of his eyes show, though not overflow and trail down his cheeks. He looked at her, begging. "Please... I can't do this."

"House, I won't give you pills. You have to take the deal, or you'll go to jail. I don't want that." She said it firmly, but not in a hard way, echoing Foreman's reaction the day before when House had attempted to play off of his emotions. Her voice was soft with the affection it almost always had when she was speaking to him. The affection she tried to hide. And failed. Cameron wore her heart on her sleeve.

"I'll go to jail regardless... I won't take the deal." He choked, his throat burning. Cameron sighed, leaning the mop against the wall and strolling over to sit next to him. Nausea hit him once more, and he quickly gripped the pot and threw up once more, only this time it was mostly stomach acid. His throat burned even worse, making his eyes water. He felt Cameron's hand on his shoulder, tracing small circles of comfort with a finger. House dropped the pot on the ground with a loud pang and leaned back into the couch.

"Please, House... you've got to stop this." She whispered. He looked at her, seeing tears finally spilling down her face.

"No." He shook his head.

"Why?" She asked.

"I haven't done anything wrong. I don't deserve this crap." He breathed. "And don't say that I should just take the deal if I don't want to go to jail. It's either get locked up in jail or get locked up in rehab. I'm fucked either way."

"House, if you go to jail, you'll be stuck there for years, and you'll never practice medicine again. You'll be railroaded and it'll ruin your entire life. Why not just suffer through two months in rehab and then let your life go back to normal?" She was being logical, using reason against him... it almost worked.

Almost.

"No." He repeated. "I won't let him win."

"House!" Cameron burst out. "You're being an idiot!" She removed her hand from his shoulder as she stood up, and he lamented it's loss. He didn't answer, because he didn't know how. He knew, somewhere deep down, that the logical step was just to take the deal and save his ass. But a firm, hard wall inside of him formed. No, he wasn't going to go to rehab. He wasn't going to give. He would survive. "House!" Cameron said, trying to get his attention.

"Just get the hell out of here. I don't need someone to lecture me. That's Wilson's job. Well, it was. I fired him. And I'm not looking for a replacement." He grunted. He could see there was no chance of getting vicodin out of her... there was no point in her staying.

"I'm _not_ leaving you." She insisted fiercely.

"Oh, please." House growled. "I get it Cameron. You've made it blatantly obvious for three years that you like me. You don't need to be all noble and stay with the pitiful drug addict." He hoped that his words hurt her enough to leave.

They didn't.

_There's only one way I'm getting her out of here..._

"The dwarf." House muttered. "You said she has ear infections?" It took Cameron a moment to realize he had eavesdropped on her conversation with Cuddy before a look of understanding crossed her face.

"Yes..."

"Autoimmune fits better than cancer, but lupus generally attacks the kidneys first. You haven't mentioned anything about them being damaged, so I'm working under the assumption that they're fine. I think it's a different type of autoimmune triggered by a minor infection... specifically, an ear infection. Still's disease." He told her, hating himself for helping her, knowing that he had lost his only bargaining chip... but it was the only way to get Cameron out of here. And the plan that was forming in his head required Cameron to leave. She looked at him, biting her lip.

"You know it makes sense. You need to run off to the hospital and tell Cuddy to start her on prednisone, methotrexate, and cyclosporin. She'll need to be observed for the next twenty four hours, and you can't make Foreman stay there the whole time. You need to be there." House explained, the amount of words flowing from his mouth causing him to tire. He was disgusted by what a wreck he was.

"You're just trying to get me out of here..." He could tell Cameron was racked with indecision. House, or the patient?

"You know I'm _right_." He insisted. "Get out of here... go help the damn midget. I can puke without moral support."

Cameron hesitated before turning away from him and walking towards the door. Her hand halted on the door knob.

"House..."

"_Go_."

As the door closed shut quietly behind her, he stood up shakily.

He had a plan.

**xxxxxx  
**

_When somebody wants you_

_Somebody needs you_

_Christmas is a joy of joy_

_But friends, when you're lonely_

_You'll find that it's only_

_A thing for little girls and little boys  
_

_May all your days be merry_

_Your seasons full of cheer_

_But till it's January_

_I'll just go and disappear  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

Getting back to PPTH had been a challenge. First, he had to force himself to stand up, which at the time had seemed like a nearly insurmountable obstacle. Following that, he had changed into his typical work attire and stumbled out to his car. Remaining coherent during the drive there was a struggle, and he had to stop three times to vomit out his car window.

He arrived at the hospital just as the sun began it's trek towards the hills. He darted his eyes around, hoping to avoid Cuddy and the rest of the team. No, there was only one person House wanted to see. He limped to the elevator, and hit the button for the second floor.

House was heading to the oncology ward.

The elevator doors binged open, as he saw his target. Wilson was filling out a chart, leaning on the nurse's station. House tried to reign in the rage he felt at the very sight of his best friend. _You need to look like you had an innocent reason for coming here. Suck it up._

Holding his stomach and trying to keep his composure, he shuffled towards Wilson, pausing when he was right behind him. He did a mockingly high cough, and his friend turned around, brown eyes flashing as he came face to face with House. He looked him over cautiously.

"What do you want, House?" He was undoubtedly confused. Every time Wilson had approached House in the past two days, House had forced him away. Now he had sought him out, it was bound to cause the oncologist to wonder.

"Two days down, one to go." House announced cheerily, although the effect was somewhat ruined by his low, hoarse voice. Wilson stared at him, waiting for him to continue. "Tell you what, maybe I can forgive you for fucking up my entire life if-"

"I'm not giving you pills." Wilson said firmly, turning to stalk away. House grabbed his shoulder somewhat roughly.

"Will you let me finish my sentence?" He growled. Wilson turned towards him, shirking off his hand. "I'm puking every five minutes. I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. Can you _please _write me a scrip for medaclopromide?" Wilson continued to stare at him. "You're my attending physician. I'm sick."

"That's your fault." Wilson responded, stepping back from him and scooping his chart up off the counter. House caught a glimpse of the name on the chart. _Zebalusky._

"Actually, it's _your_ fault, but who's keeping track?" House said, shrugging his shoulders. "You're the reason I'm about to be shipped off to jail for ten years, so why not do one last good deed? 'Tis the season of giving."

"House, if you want medaclopromide, go to rehab. If you want to avoid jail time, _go to rehab_." Wilson responded, jaw clenched. House tightened his hands into fists.

"You stab me in the back and you won't even do this for me?" He said, his voice low and slightly threatening. He had taken a step closer to Wilson, who didn't shy away. Wilson's smoldering eyes met his own. House wasn't the only one who was pissed.

"I'm done trying to help you, House." Wilson replied.

At that moment, House could almost hear something inside of him snap. The word 'help' might have been the catalyst, he wasn't sure, but before he was even sure what his hands were doing, he grabbed the front of Wilson's lab coat in his fists and shook him, about to say something when-

_Bang! _A heavy right hook directly to his face. House stumbled backwards, clutching his cheek, before landing a punch directly to Wilson's left eye. The monster was out, and he wasn't happy. Through the blood pounding in his ears, he could hear muffled shouts and exclamations from the other people in the oncology ward, but he ignored them. Before Wilson had a chance to retaliate, he slammed him with both hands, sending the younger man tumbling to the ground. House towered over Wilson, about to strike again, when Wilson looked up at him, his visible eye glittering with dark amusement. His hand was clutching the other that House had hit. House stood, fist half raised, as he looked at his ex-friend. Wilson let out a short, barking, bitter laugh.

"Yeah... you don't have a problem at all, House." Wilson pushed himself off of the ground, holding a hand up to one of the nurses, who had the phone from the nurse's station in her hand, fingers poised to dial. "Don't bother." He said. She hesitated before setting the phone back on the receiver. Wilson just shook his head at House, then turned his back on him and walked away. House was still standing there, fist in the air. He unclenched his hand and looked down at his trembling digits. He had lost control, but at that moment, he couldn't really regret his actions. Suddenly, another wave of nausea slammed into him, and he made a beeline to the men's restroom, barely making it into a stall before vomiting for the umpteenth time that day. He collapsed back against the toilet when he was done, the muscles in his abdomen on fire from the repeated expelling motion. His throat was raw, so much that the small whimper that escaped him burned up his esophagus.

Eyes watering profusely from both the foul stench of vomit that remained even after he flushed the toilet, and from the pain shooting up his leg, (and everywhere else in his body, for that matter) House lurched to the sink, using it to prop himself up. Dragging in several heavy breaths, he turned on the water full blast cold. Cupping his hands together, he splashed a copious amount on his face, causing him to shiver, but distracting him at the same time. Hair drenched, face dripping, he lifted his head slightly to examine himself in the mirror.

Dark bags hung under his intense blue eyes, which had taken on a bloodshot and watery quality. His lips were chapped, and his beard seemed significantly more gray than brown, and was beginning to creep down his neck, something he would have never allowed had he not been so completely strung out. A faint bruise was already forming on his cheek from Wilson's well placed blow. The lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes seemed much more defined than usual. He looked... old. And worn.

For the first time since Wilson had informed him of the deal, for a brief moment, House genuinely considered taking it. He was falling apart.

_No. I'm not caving in. I've done nothing wrong. Nothing. _He told himself as he ripped a paper towel from the dispenser and dried off his face and hands. It was time for step two of his plan to come into action. Grabbing his cane, he headed back into the oncology ward, dodging the small crowd and heading back to the elevators. He hit the button for the ground floor, glad the elevator was empty. When the doors spread open, he hurried to the pharmacy, keeping what he was going to say straight in his head. When he arrived, he banged a fist on the counter, getting Marco's attention. The short Hispanic man glanced up, having been writing something down on an inventory sheet.

"Yes?" He asked, seeming to take in House's disheveled appearance.

"Here to pick up a scrip for Zebalusky on Wilson's behalf." He explained, hoping the story of their skirmish hadn't already reached the pharmacist. Marco cocked an eyebrow.

"Why can't Dr. Wilson pick it up?" He asked suspiciously.

"He's a little busy with Mr. Zebalusky, who's dying in agony because of his metastatic lung cancer... an agony which he can't relieve because of some _moron pharmacist_." He spat. He had no patience at the moment. He needed relief. Now. Marco hesitated, then returned to get a bottle of Oxy from the shelves.

"Sign the book." He said over his shoulder. House stifled a loud sigh of relief. He quickly grabbed the sign out sheet, scribbling his name down on it along with Zebalusky's name and the amount of pills. He doubted Tritter's boys would still be watching the book. They already had him backed into a corner, they didn't exactly need more proof. Just as he dropped the pen, Marco returned with the Oxy. House quickly snatched it from him and picked up his cane, anticipation flooding through him at the thought of finally having the pain relief he needed. Ducking into the seldom used back stairwell, he collapsed on the steps, quickly undoing the child proof lock and dumping six white tablets into his hand. Without a second thought, he tossed them in his mouth, drying swallowing them as usual.

He leaned back against the railing, suppressing a sigh of relief. He could almost feel the pain ebbing out of him... he smiled, turning the pill bottle in his hand, his eyes closed.

Soon he'd barely feel a thing, and that was just the way he liked it.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Old Santa may have brought you_

_Some stars for your shoes_

_But Santa only brought me the blues_

_Those brightly packaged_

_Tinsel covered Christmas blues  
_

_Old Santa may have brought you_

_Some stars for your shoes_

_But Santa only brought me the blues_

_Those brightly packaged_

_Tinsel covered Christmas blues_

* * *

**Author's Note: Please review! All the rights to "Christmas Blues" go to Billy Hayes and Jay W. Johnson. Act four will be along soon...**


	4. Act 4

**Merry Little Christmas**

**A House MD Fanfiction**

**Act Four: Higher Than You**

**Author's Note: Final act! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and read! Hope you enjoy the ending... sorry it's a so short compared to the others.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD!**

* * *

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Let your heart be light_

_From now on_

_Our troubles will be out of sight (my Lord)  
_

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Make the Yuletide gay_

_From now on_

_Our troubles will be miles away  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

Sweet, blissful relief. One half empty pill bottle later, House felt renewed. He had taken much more than usual, wanting to completely eradicate his withdrawl and as much of his leg pain that he could. He was slightly hazy, which he didn't like... but hey, Cuddy said he couldn't practice medicine until he took the deal, so no worries.

He relaxed in his office, which he was unsurprised to find empty. The team was most likely meeting in Cuddy's office for differentials at this point. Of course, if he was right about Still's, the midget would probably be out the door by now.

He lounged in his office chair, finishing off the last of the six hot dogs he had ordered from the cafeteria after the Oxy started to kick in. Accompanied by the now empty plate was a large basket of fries he was still working on and a large root beer. His appetite had come back rather quickly, considering he'd been vomiting every fifteen minutes all day. His stomach was now becoming pleasantly full.

He had his head phones on, humming to the dulcet tones of The Who as he snacked on his fries. He laughed to himself, though he wasn't really sure about what. The sun had set on Princeton, and a sliver of a moon hung in the sky.

_It's Christmas Eve... _House thought blearily. He smiled. He had carefully reserved the rest of the bottle of Oxy for later use. After he'd drained his resources, well, he'd worry from there. He looked at his reflection in his blank computer monitor. His pupils were dilated, and a goofy smile hung on his face. _I really should smile more. I have a nice smile._

He was interrupted from his dazed thoughts by a familiar voice shrieking in his ear. House jumped, knocking his fries to the ground. He turned to give Cuddy an angry look as he took off his headphones.

"You owe me fries." He grunted, scooping the basket up off of the floor and setting it on his desk.

"You're not detoxing!" Cuddy stated, staring at him, concern bright in her eyes. House just shrugged.

"Willpower is an amazing thing." He said philosophically, sipping on his drink. Cuddy shook her head, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"You got your hands on pain meds." She asked. She sighed, pulling a bottle of vicodin out of her pocket.

"You folded." House observed, smirking. "Told you."

"Your patient is _dying_, House. We need your help." She seemed incredibly reticent to admit this, and it didn't surprise him. Cuddy was proud. Too proud. House smiled lazily at her as she repocketed the pills.

"My patient? Funny, I thought she was _your_ patient... but sorry, no can do. I'm not allowed to practice medicine until I take the deal." House mocked, standing up out of his chair, finishing off his drink and tossing it into the trash can, then grabbing his cane from where it leaned against the wall.

"House, you're not seriously going to just leave, are you?" She asked.

"A better question is, how did you even know I was here? Wilson's the only person who's seen me."

"He came to me as soon as you had your fight." Cuddy said quietly. "House, this has got to show you what the pills are doing-"

"Sorry, the person who was about to hand me narcotics doesn't get to lecture me about them." House announced, moving to scoot past her. She stopped him with a hand and a firm look that said "I'm the Dean of Medicine!"

"House, the steroids aren't working. She's bleeding out of every orifice. It's not Still's. We're bouncing back and forth between autoimmune and cancer, but we-"

"Get out of my way." He said in a dangerous whisper. The idea that he would hurt Cuddy was ridiculous, but he had punched out both an employee and attacked his best friend in the past couple days, and he hoped that the empty threat would seem real to Cuddy. Her eyes widened.

"House... you can't do this." She whispered.

"Watch me." He forced himself past her and limped to the other end of his office, opening the door with his cane without looking back.

Cuddy was tempted to chase after him, but she knew her attempts would be met by only resistance... and right now, though she hated to admit it to herself, she was slightly afraid of House.

There was only one person that would be able to stop House before he left the hospital and did God knows what. He was unstable.

She suddenly notice something. Her pocket felt lighter than before. She reached her hand down to feel around for the pill bottle that had been there.

It was gone.

She dialed Wilson's number.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Here we are as in olden days_

_Happy golden days of yore_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us  
_

_Gather near to us once more_

_Through the years_

_We all will be together_

_I__f the Fates allow  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

"House!"

House heard the familiar shout behind him just as he put a hand on the glass door that led out of the hospital and into the waiting blizzard. House let out an exaggerated sigh, puffing out his cheeks as he did so. _Cuddy must really not want me to leave if she's siccing Wilson on me._

House turned around to see Wilson trotting towards him, his brown hair messy and his eyes dark with worry. He stopped three feet away from House, trepidation coloring his demeanor.

"Don't want to get too close and risk getting attacked by the crazy drug addict again?" House asked cheerily, taking a long step towards Wilson so there was only a few inches in between them. Wilson didn't flinch.

"House. This stops right now." He said, his voice strong and firm. House blinked. He had never heard Wilson sound so harsh. So commanding.

"Sit down, Wilson, and I will explain to you the concept of free will."

"No more jokes. You're taking the deal. I don't care if I have to drug you and drag you to Tritter's office, I will. I won't let you destroy yourself. You hate me. I get it. I stabbed you in the back. But right now, that doesn't matter. What matters is what happens if you leave the hospital with those pills. The ones you got from who knows where, and the ones you stole from Cuddy." Wilson straightened his back so he reached his full height. He was still three inches shorter than House.

"What I'm going to _do_ is go home and take a faceful of them so I can pass out and enjoy my Christmas Eve like any other addict." House said, smiling brightly.

"Alone?" Wilson asked, the solitary word coated with acid. House would have been hurt, had he not been so stoned. He laughed loudly in Wilson's face. The numbness felt so _good_...

_But if I'm numb, how can I feel anything? What a paradox._

"Words hurt, you know!" House said with mock indignation, clutching his heart. Wilson just looked at him, pain bright and visible in his warm eyes.

"House... _please_. You're my best friend. I don't want to watch you fall apart anymore. Somewhere in there, you know I'm right. Take the deal." He begged. _Begging? Wilson doesn't beg. _House thought, his mind fuzzy and in a pleasant daze.

"I'm going to go home now. Unless you want to fight again. The nurses could take bets this time!" House put up his fists. "Come on. I'll let you have the first shot."

Wilson just shook his head, his eyes actually shining. _Oh my God. Is he going to cry?_

"House." Wilson pleaded. "Please."

House snorted, rolled his eyes, and turned on heel to exit the hospital. Pushing through the doors and into the dark winter night, House left Wilson standing alone.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Hang a shining star_

_Upon the highest bough_

_And have yourself  
_

_A merry little Christmas right now(Have yourself a)_

_Have yourself a(Merry little Christmas)_

_A merry little Christmas(Have yourself a)_

_Oh(Merry Christmas now)  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

"Now this is what I call Christmas." House said, taking a long draught of his scotch. However, the vicodin, although not wearing off completely, had dulled somewhat. Intrusive thoughts were poking their way into House's mind. _I'll go to jail if I don't take the deal. I stole from Cuddy. I stole some dead guys pills. I'm pathetic. _

He didn't want to _think_. He would deal with everything... at some point. But right now, he didn't want to think about anything at all. He wanted peace, something so elusive and impossible in his life.

Medicated peace was the closest thing he could get right now. He counted out his remaining vicodin. Forty five in all, thirty from the bottle he stole from Cuddy, and fifteen left from the one he nabbed from Wilson's patient.

The most he had ever taken in a short period of time was fifteen, which he had just done a few short hours before.

_I wonder how far I could push it? _

Like any good scientist, he decided to test that theory.

House poured twenty vicodin onto his coffee table. Combined with his scotch, this would completely obliterate any coherent thought he had. Which was exactly what he wanted, so this seemed like the right amount.

Only one, small problem.

This amount had a pretty good chance of killing him. Strangely, House didn't really care. Obviously, he didn't want to die, but if he did, would it really be that bad? He cared if he lived... he didn't care if he died.

_I won't die. I've been popping these things like candy for years. It's not going to kill me._

Having convinced himself, he took four at a time. Instead of dry swallowing, he took them with a large gulp of scotch. _A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, helps the medicine go down..._

Five handfuls of pills later, House was eagerly anticipating his descent into incoherence. Suddenly, he had an impulse. He picked up his home phone. He dialed the number he had memorized, though never called. The phone went to the answering machine.

"Hey Mom... Dad. I guess you guys are already up at Aunt Sarah's. I just wanted to call and say, you know, Merry Christmas." He paused, the words on his tongue hesitant. He shook his head, deciding he might as well say it. "Love you guys."

He hung up and let the phone drop from his hand. He grabbed his scotch and drank straight from the bottle, downing half of it in one swallow. He sank back against his pillows._ Oh, this is nice... very nice._

He had made the right choice. Rehab was hard. This wasn't.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_

_Make the Yuletide gay_

_From now on_

_Our troubles will be miles away, ooh  
_

_Here we are as in olden days_

_Happy golden days of yore_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us _

_Gather near to us once more  
_

**xxxxxx  
**

Thank God they decided to do a full body scan. Wilson couldn't believe it. Abigail wasn't even a dwarf. She had Langerhan's Cell Histiocytosis. Their original assumption had been completely wrong. Even House wouldn't have been able to catch this one...

Or at least that's what he told himself. In fact, Wilson told himself that all the way to House's apartment. He was also telling himself that House would be alright. That he should just give him his space. That his friend needed time alone, and away from him.

Wilson could definitely understand that. He had betrayed House. If Wilson was House, he'd hate him, too.

But he couldn't stop himself from driving over there. He had to make sure House was okay.

And now, here he was, standing outside of apartment B, his hand hesitating to knock. He had called three times. No answer. But House's phone was ringing from the inside, meaning House was in there. He still had the spare key, but he banged his fist on the door anyway.

"House?" He called. "Are you okay? I called three times."

No answer. He knocked again, and was still met by silence. He sighed, slipping the key out of his pocket and fitting it into the keyhole. He opened the door to House's apartment.

At first, he saw nothing. Just House's apartment, still and smelling slightly of sick, cleaning supplies, and alcohol.

Then he saw House on the floor.

Wilson raced over, his eyes briefly darting to the two pill bottles on the table. One was empty, the other was missing a few pills. The empty one read Zebalusky.

_My patient._

Wilson bent over, his sopping hair letting small drips fall onto House's unconscious form. He shook his friend.

"House, House!" He yelled. He noticed now the deep black and blue bruise on House's cheek from where Wilson had hit him earlier. _No, no, no, this is my fault! I shouldn't have told Tritter, no, no, no, no, no! _He thought frantically, shaking House, tears now staining his face with the stinging, melting snow.

House's chest wasn't rising or falling. Wilson felt for a heartbeat.

Silence. No warmth. His hands weren't cold, his hands were cold because House wasn't producing any warmth.

"No!" Wilson yelled out loud. He straddled House, placing one hand over another and pumping on his chest. The whole time, a cold terror coursing through him as he whispered "No." over and over again like a chant. He tilted House's head up and opened his friend's mouth. It reeked of scotch, but he didn't care.

He alternated between pumping on House's chest and breathing into his mouth.

"No... no... no... _no_!"

It was over an hour before Wilson finally gave up.

**xxxxxx  
**

_Through the years_

_We all will be together_

_If the Fates allow (allow)_

_Hang a shining star  
_

_Upon the highest bough ooh ooh_

_And have yourself_

_Let your heart be light_

_Ooh have yourself_

_Put your troubles out of sight_

_Ooh just have yourself_

_A merry little Christmas now_

* * *

**Author's Note: The End! I am now prepared for a verbal beat down because of the ending. Anyway, please share your thoughts, and thanks for reading! :D**


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue:**

**Happy New Year**

**Author's Note: I felt like this needed an epilogue... so I wrote one. Boom bang. Enjoy. Sorry it's so tiny.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House MD.  
**

* * *

**_Winter taking days_**

**_Nights filled with longer hours _**

**_Hey _**

**_Nights filled with longer hours  
_**

**_Winter solstice _**

**_Passing by us _**

**_Temperatures dropping _**

**_Try us _**

**_With colder feelings  
_**

**xxxxxx**

_Wilson,_

_If you're reading this, it means either you're a huge snoop, or I'm dead. I don't know how I died. It doesn't matter. You're listed as my next of kin, so that leaves you some shit to handle once I've checked out._

_Do whatever the hell you want with my stuff. I'm dead, I can't use it now. Just don't get rid of my guitar. It's my legacy. I don't want a funeral. I don't want a bunch of people pretending they like me while the one or two who actually did cry over my body._

_Just bury me somewhere, I could care less where. See? You don't have too much to do. You'll also notice you've come into a large sum of money. I did have a little saved up, and you're the only person around I like enough to give any money too... so lucky you. This make up for all the money I've borrowed?_

_You're probably pretty bummed that I'm gone. Don't be. Death happens, and knowing me, I probably brought it on myself. Anyway, I want you to know now that you were the best friend I ever had, for better or for worse. Have a good life._

_House  
_

Wilson read the letter for the hundredth time since discovering his friend's body in his apartment. He still felt the blood on his hands. Obviously the blood was metaphorical, but it was still there.

He had known House for most of his life. He wouldn't have killed himself. Wilson _knew_ he didn't kill himself. House had accidentally overdosed, as result of his painful and sudden detox.

A result of Wilson's betrayal.

There were so many fingers to point, so many people to blame. Tritter, Wilson, House, hell, even Cuddy could take a bit of the blame pie if it came down to it.

To Wilson, none of that mattered. To him, he might as well have put a gun to his best friend's head an pulled the trigger. He knew it was irrational, and the guilt was likely a reaction to the devastation of House's death, but that didn't matter.

He had betrayed House to Tritter and collaborated with Cuddy against him. House may have taken too many pills, but would he have ever even been in that position if Wilson hadn't talked to Tritter.

He would never know now, because House was dead. Overanalyzing his actions over the past few months would not bring his friend back_. I just have to move on. _Wilson thought dimly.

But how could he? Late on New Years Eve, shortly after midnight, the other residents of Princeton were raising their glasses in celebration of the New Year.

Wilson was hovering at House's newly dug grave. His friend had been buried there in the small cemetary the day before.

The guilt had been eating him up on the inside, destroying every other thought. If he could just talk to House one more time, _once more_, maybe he wouldn't hurt so bad.

This was the closest he could get. House would mock him for it, surely. Talking to a grave as if it was some remainder of his friend. But had House's mocking ever really deterred him before?

"House." Wilson whispered as he sat down next to his friend's grave, the fresh and cold snow crunching underneath him. He tucked his knees against his chest, the letter still held in his hand. A freezing, blustery wind hit him, causing him to shiver. "I need to talk to you." He began, placing the letter on the ground. He rubbed his hands together, trying to create some kind of warmth.

"You were always loyal to me." He said. "Always."

**xxxxxx  
**

**_Black ice and hidden lusts _**

**_White sheets of snow concealing _**

**_Gloves on hands _**

**_With warmer pasts  
_**

**_Plastic sleds cracking _**

**_The new lead chance _**

**_Huddling against the walls _**

**_Of shrinking college trends  
_**

**xxxxxx  
**

"I shouldn't have done what I did. I shouldn't have talked to Tritter... but I was trying to _help_ you, damn it!" Wilson insisted, his head falling into his hands. "You were going out of control... I-I didn't know what to do. He wasn't going to give up, and I thought if you took the deal it would make him go away, and it would be good for you. The pills affected you, whether you liked it or not."

"I guess I was wrong. Really wrong, considering you're dead. _Dead_." Wilson let out a slightly insane, twittering laugh. "I'm not an idiot. I know you didn't kill yourself. You're too proud for that. You got carried away with the pills. Withdrawal must have been a living hell for you... and I was the one who put you through that..."

"I just didn't know what to do, House. I'm not perfect. I'm not even close... but what was I supposed to do, exactly? Just watch you fall apart? Watch you go to jail? I did the only thing I could think of." He was shaking now, and he couldn't help but let the tears building in his eyes to trace their way down his cheeks.

**xxxxxx  
**

**_With the days living faster now _**

**_We cast our make pretends _**

**_Extra heat demands _**

**_A rising constant power  
_**

**_Darkness taking days _**

**_Nights filled with longer hours_**

**_Nights filled with longer hours  
_**

**xxxxxx  
**

"I never dreamed that it would end like this. Never. If I would have thought for one second that telling Tritter would have led to this..." He choked back a sob, gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I don't even know what to say. Nothing will make this better."

"You'd lay into me right now, if you were here. How I was just trying alleviate my own guilt by talking to the air, convinced that someone's listening... maybe some part of me does believe that wherever you are, you can hear me. Of course, then you'd tell me that you're not anywhere. That you're dead, that's the end of it... there is no flying up with the other angels. Maybe you're right. You tended to be right a lot, I noticed."

"I just want to apologize. I'm sorry for telling Tritter. I'm sorry for having a hand in this ridiculous clusterfuck. I'm sorry for having a hand in your death..." He shook his head. "More than a hand, probably."

"You know what the worst part is?" Wilson asked, his eyes turning upward. A faint sliver of a moon hung in the black velvet winter sky. He didn't know why he waited for a response when he knew there would be none forthcoming.

Greg House would never speak again...

"The worst part is," Wilson said, his voice trembling with grief. "was that you died _hating _me."

**xxxxxx  
**

**_Gotta jagged gorgeous winter from a summer's thread _**

**_All the lies you told about me they were totally, totally, totally true _**

**_Thinking through the noise you go back to bed  
_**

**_With your tinker tinker toys _**

**_You gotta think it, think it, think it, think it through._**

_**Drag it out, drag it out, drag it out**  
_

**xxxxxx**

* * *

**Author's Note: Keep in mind, this was FROM WILSON'S POINT OF VIEW. Anyway, thanks for reading, PLEASE review, and all rights to Jagged Gorgeous Winter go to The Main Drag.**


End file.
